Caz: Allen Johnson a friend to many

Published: Sunday, August 10, 2014 at 03:00 PM.

The Frog has croaked.

And I just won my third bet with Allen Johnson, a man notorious not just for loving to make a bet, but for hating to – and almost never – losing one. More on that later.

On Monday, July 21, Johnson, 67, was killed in cold blood in what should’ve been the safety of his own home, his back to the shooter, which tells all of us who knew Allen that it was someone he thought he could trust. A man whose name isn’t worthy of mentioning here is charged with the homicide. Authorities said the man was an invited guest, someone who called upon a friend because he needed to borrow some money, but who instead killed and robbed him, in that order, because he was desperate for money to feed a pain pill addiction.

Allen was my friend. Allen was a friend to many people, not all of whom would openly admit it for whatever reason, something they can decide if they’re comfortable with now that he’s gone.

I met Allen in the early 1980s as a cub crime reporter for The News Herald while he was an undercover narcotics officer for the Bay County Sheriff’s Office. He went by the nickname “Frog,” a name that still carries even more weight than Allen, who loved the finer things in life. He was the lead deputy on my first “ride-along” when they took me to a large marijuana field they had staked out.

His obituary noted his accomplishments, playing football at several colleges before returning home, making the first undercover marijuana bust in Bay County history and being a renowned undercover officer across the state.

Even in death, as the news hit, people saw that Allen Johnson had been killed and asked on Facebook, “That’s not Frog is it? Oh my God.”

And I just won my third bet with Allen Johnson, a man notorious not just for loving to make a bet, but for hating to – and almost never – losing one. More on that later.

On Monday, July 21, Johnson, 67, was killed in cold blood in what should’ve been the safety of his own home, his back to the shooter, which tells all of us who knew Allen that it was someone he thought he could trust. A man whose name isn’t worthy of mentioning here is charged with the homicide. Authorities said the man was an invited guest, someone who called upon a friend because he needed to borrow some money, but who instead killed and robbed him, in that order, because he was desperate for money to feed a pain pill addiction.

Allen was my friend. Allen was a friend to many people, not all of whom would openly admit it for whatever reason, something they can decide if they’re comfortable with now that he’s gone.

I met Allen in the early 1980s as a cub crime reporter for The News Herald while he was an undercover narcotics officer for the Bay County Sheriff’s Office. He went by the nickname “Frog,” a name that still carries even more weight than Allen, who loved the finer things in life. He was the lead deputy on my first “ride-along” when they took me to a large marijuana field they had staked out.

His obituary noted his accomplishments, playing football at several colleges before returning home, making the first undercover marijuana bust in Bay County history and being a renowned undercover officer across the state.

Even in death, as the news hit, people saw that Allen Johnson had been killed and asked on Facebook, “That’s not Frog is it? Oh my God.”

Years after he left law enforcement our paths continued to cross when, before I did a lot of growing up of my own, I’d stop by his clubs to see him and enjoy a cool beer or three and some entertainment. I saw politicians young and old enter his back door, smiling, greeting him warmly and enjoying the hospitality for a bit, though I’m not sure I ever saw most of them that friendly to Allen in public, but that’s between them.

Around 2001 I moved back here after a stint at the Macon Telegraph in Georgia and took a liking to hunting. Allen brought me to Moccasin Creek, where he hunted, and I signed on for a full season the next year. Allen did not tolerate fools, with me being the exception, and I was under strict orders to be at his house no later than 4:30 a.m. on hunting mornings. “Caz! Daylight’s burning! Let’s go!” he’d bellow.

It was there one morning that I shot a doe, but two doe fell and one was clearly not dead. I called Allen on the radio and reported that, and told him I needed to shoot the second deer and end its misery.

He did, saw I was telling the truth, and was thrilled for me. He regaled me with other tales of hunting glory at Moccasin Creek. He told me he once killed two crows with one shot, so they called him “Two-Crow Johnson.” And another hunter there took two hogs with one shot, and they called him “Two-Hog Steve.”

“So I get to be ‘Two-Doe Cazalas?’ “ I asked, visibly excited.

“No,” Allen deadpanned. “We’re going to call you, ‘Doe-Doe.’ ”

They did, and that was the Allen I knew. He was there when I shot the first buck of my life and I think he whooped louder than I did when we tracked and found it.

He was the sharpest-witted man I ever met and would give a friend anything he or she needed, if they truly needed it and weren’t capable of working for it. I saw him employ people with alcohol and addiction problems, people trying to do better, and he would give them multiple chances even when they stole from him in the process.

He set them up with vehicles and other necessities. I remember one year he closed his bar on Thanksgiving and instead ordered turkey, vegetables, stuffing, trimmings, the whole works, for every employee and their families.

He loved his family, and was very close to his sister Kim Limmer and particularly devoted to his niece and nephew, Jordan and Casey Limmer, here in Panama City.

He helped people quietly, more than anyone outside of his sister will ever know, because he didn’t talk about it.

But if you knew Allen, you knew he’d talk about just about anything else. And he had so many stories it’s hard to say what was true and what wasn’t – like the big ring he used to wear that had an eyeball in it. “I’ve got my eye on you,” he’d tell a woman, aiming the ring at her. He told me he got it from Jimi Hendrix. He might have. I know it hurt him when someone stole it a couple of years ago.

And you knew he’d bet. I’m not talking about “poker” betting, I’m talking about bets involving wit and brains and willpower, where he could either outsmart you or outlast you.

I lost many $10 and $20 bets with him during our 10 years of hunting together, which continued even after I settled down and hunting became our main source of interaction. But when I got married and I didn’t want to hear Allen’s warnings not to do it, he said he had $100 that “says it won’t last a year.” I collected my money 15 months later, when I became separated, despite his allegation that I stretched it past a year simply to get the $100.

A few years after that he was berating me for my heavy Diet Coke consumption. I bought a tractor from him earlier – he allowed me to make payments – and it was more than half paid off with a $1,600 balance. I lost my cool when he questioned my “willpower” and I said I bet I could go longer without caffeine or a carbonated beverage than he could go without a beer or mixed drink.

“How much?” he asked.

“Double or nothing on the tractor,” I blurted, both mad and groggy since it was only about 5 a.m.

“You’re on,” he said. I feared I had made a horrible mistake, for we were both stubborn men. And I didn’t have $3,200.

I quit Diet Coke cold turkey and he quit drinking cold turkey. Days turned into weeks. I would open my door to find a six-pack of Diet Coke on my doorway; I’d see him at Outback and have a drink sent over. Neither of us budged.

More than one friend of his even approached me and asked me to drop the bet, saying Allen was aggravated that I was still holding out. I refused. I knew he didn’t care about the money, he cared about the bet.

After seven weeks, I waited for him at Outback one night. I had the waitress prepare his favorite drink – some wild concoction that might tranquilize a lesser man – and set it by his stool. I had a Diet Coke ready in front of me.

When he arrived, I slid over a check made out to him for $400 of the $1,600 balance on the tractor.

“Take this and you won’t have to admit you lost the bet, we’ll call it even on the tractor, and you can have your drink and I can have my Diet Coke,” I said.

His eyes wavered, he gave me a grunt of disgust, and said something that sounded like, “OK.” He picked up his drink as if to toast me as I picked up my Diet Coke and I noticed he was watching as the glass approached my mouth.

“Wait, the bet’s off, right?” I asked before sipping. He grinned, then guffawed, “Caz, I almost had you.”

He then shook my hand, picked up the check and had his drink.

“Yeah, bet’s off,” he said.

And he enjoyed his drink.

“You know you lost that bet,” I said a little bit later. “Yeah, but I’ll never admit it,” he replied.

That was Allen.

He would never agree to a bet with me again until I told him one day that if I outlived him, I was going to write a column about him and start it off with, “The Frog has croaked.”

He laughed and said, “You’d never do that. It’d be funny, but I bet you wouldn’t do it.”